


ain't got much (but we've got history)

by thebackhand



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Healing, Indian Wells 2019, Injury Recovery, Nico is sick of bresnik's shit, Overworking, Platonic Relationships, Self-Esteem Issues, Toxic Parental Figures, Verbal Abuse, and so am i, anxious and insecure Domi, nico massu appreciation fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23727085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebackhand/pseuds/thebackhand
Summary: Dominic knew that people talked about how hard he trained, how hard Günter pushed him. Tones ranged from admiration to concern, claims that Günter made him mixed with criticism of his heavy schedule and perennial late-season decline.But he wasn’t talented enough to win without training until he dropped. He never would have gotten this far if his father hadn’t turned him over to Günter sixteen years ago. Everyone knew it.And then there was Nico.
Relationships: Dominic Thiem & Gunter Bresnik (platonic/family), Dominic Thiem & Nicolas Massu (platonic)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 20





	ain't got much (but we've got history)

**Author's Note:**

> this is a Nico Massu appreciation fanfic. Title is from "Seamstress", by Dessa.
> 
> I should probably say that all interactions in this work are entirely fictional.

Dominic knew that people talked about how hard he trained, how hard Günter pushed him. Tones ranged from admiration to concern, claims that Günter made him mixed with criticism of his heavy schedule and perennial late-season decline.

But Günter Bresnik _had_ made him. Everyone knew that, everyone could see it. Günter had published a book, for god’s sake. Dominic should be proud, flattered that such a great coach had put so much time into his development.

It was easy to defend when he was healthy. When he was winning. When he’d made a Slam final, been number four in the world, beaten Rafael Nadal at two clay Masters events, qualified for the tour finals three years running.

It was harder when everything hurt, when his back gave out on him at Wimbledon, when he missed Cincinnati, when he dragged himself across the finish line with just one round-robin win over a fellow walking wounded for the third year in a row.

It got even harder when the offseason proved too short to recharge before the grind started again.

He had to retire again in Melbourne, had to listen to Günter scream that he didn’t raise a fucking coward who quit when things got tough. He went home and tried not to see the worry in his doctor’s eyes as he prescribed rest that he and Dominic both knew he wouldn’t get.

This was what you had to do if you wanted to be top ten, if you wanted half a chance to win majors in this era of men’s tennis.

Dominic wasn’t talented enough to win without training until he dropped. He never would have gotten this far if his father hadn’t turned him over to Günter sixteen years ago. Everyone knew it.

But then there was Nico.

Nicolas Massu took one look at him and saw _damage_. When Rio’s top seed lost in the first round, Nico could see pain in every line of his body.

He hadn’t wanted to rock the boat so early. Bresnik was still head coach. Nico was here on a trial basis. But when Dominic reacted to the loss with harsh self-criticism and distraught promises to work harder, Nico couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“Dominic. Listen to me for a minute,” he said.

Thiem fell silent, and Nico suddenly wondered how many times he’d been shut down. God, his _eyes_. Nico ached just looking at him.

“You’re killing yourself,” Nico said. Dominic looked at him with furrowed brows. “We’ll fly to Indian Wells tomorrow, but you need to rest, at least for a few days.”

“I’m fine,” Dominic said. He sounded like he believed that. Nico would have believed that if he hadn’t just watched Dominic try to play while his body screamed for reprieve. “I just need matches. I’m rusty.”

“You’re not rusty. You’re worn out. Please, Dominic.”

And for the first time, Nico saw Dominic Thiem consider that Günter Bresnik might be wrong.

The first few days in Indian Wells were tricky. Bresnik called, demanding to know why Dominic wasn’t practicing. Nico could hear him shouting through the phone from across a room.

Dominic always looked sick by the time Günter hung up.

Nico hated listening to it, but he didn’t want to leave Dominic alone.

Three days off from training was an alien concept. Domi fidgeted constantly, a ball of nervous energy. Alex, the new physio, whistled sympathetically the first time he worked on him.

“You’re just knots on top of knots,” he commented. Dominic hissed as Alex’s thumb dug into his upper back. “Sorry. That had to hurt.”

Nico watched Dominic’s body recover and breathed a sigh of relief. At least that damage didn’t seem to be lasting.

The first day back hitting wasn’t perfect, but by Dominic’s assessment, an onlooker would think he’d maimed someone, not just missed some targets.

“I’m sorry, I’ll be better tomorrow. I promise I’ll work until I get it right,” Dominic said. His voice shook, and he wouldn’t look Nico in the eye.

“You’re fine, Dom.”

“I’m _not_ fine. I never go this long without practicing during the season. I play like shit when I break routine, I should have kept–”

“Hey, easy,” Nico interrupted him. “You are not playing like shit. You got used to playing with pain, and now not having to think about it is an adjustment. We still have a week. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Dominic wasn’t sure how to respond. Demanding better of himself regardless of excuses wasn’t just a habit; it was ingrained so deeply he couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

“How the hell am I supposed to get better, then?”

Nico let out a long breath. This was always going to be the hard part. He’d known that when he approached Thiem at the Davis Cup.

“You’re going to get better by listening to your body when it tells you that you need a break. I have some ideas about shots and tactics you can work on, but they don’t matter if you’re exhausted and hurting.”

It was painful to see how skeptical Dominic looked. Nico wondered if anyone had ever told him to put his health first.

“If I’m tired this early in the season when I’ve only played seven fucking matches, I’m just not fit enough,” Dominic argued.

Nico’s jaw dropped at the idea that Dominic Thiem of all people _wasn’t fit enough_ , but he had a feeling that he knew exactly where Dominic had gotten it.

“You know that’s not true,” Nico said. “The only problem with your fitness is that you burned out last year and never got to recharge. Did you even take a break in the offseason?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

Dominic didn’t answer for a few moments, and Nico couldn’t tell if he looked embarrassed or angry.

“A week,” he said.

“One week. And then straight back into that routine with Bresnik?” Nico asked.

“I’m not _good enough_ to win if I don’t train harder than everyone else!” Dominic insisted. “That’s all I’ve _got_ on them, I’m no good without him.”

There was a desperation in his voice that made Nico’s chest ache.

“You don’t really believe that,” he said quietly. “Please tell me you don’t really believe that.”

“It’s true. Everyone knows it,” Dominic muttered.

He looked resolutely at the hotel carpet, arms wrapped tightly around his ribs.

“Dominic, please, just… give this a chance to work, okay? If I’m wrong and you’re not feeling better about where you are in a couple weeks, I’ll shut up.”

Dominic’s phone rang in his pocket, and Nico knew who it was before Domi even reached for it.

“Don’t pick that up right now,” Nico said. “You know he’s just going to scream at you. Don’t do that to yourself.”

Dominic looked at the buzzing phone for a few seconds, and then he put it back in his pocket. Nico dared to hope.

He did get better, building up the strength and control he’d lost over the past few months. When he got back into a rhythm, Nico started introducing new ideas.

Mix up your return positions. Work on the block return. Get up to the baseline for the next ball and stay there. You’re fast enough to get behind anything, you don’t need to hang back. Go in when you get a short ball and crush it, don’t give them time to recover before your next shot.

Bresnik still called. Dominic still flinched when he yelled, but he also moved past it more easily. He still gave everything in practice, but he didn’t berate himself for small imperfections.

His first match was ugly, the kind of scrap you get into when you’ve only won three matches all year, but he dug in. The second was better. Then he beat Karlovic in straights without even needing a breaker, and Nico’s internal monologue started to shift from _we’re making progress_ to _he could win this thing_.

“Günter didn’t hurt me,” Dominic said at dinner one night, unprompted.

Nico bit his tongue. No sense getting in an argument with him about this.

“I know,” he said. “But sometimes it’s not about that. Sometimes people just stop being good for you. Doesn’t mean they never were, or that they don’t care. But I really like what I’m seeing this week. I’d love to keep working with you.”

Domi went quiet for a while, and Nico let him think about it.

Monfils withdrew from the quarters. Raonic would always be a problem with that serve, but the Karlovic match gave them both confidence. Dominic hadn’t played this well since the US Open.

Nico started to go over the game plan they’d talked about, but quickly became aware that Dominic was too anxious to absorb any of it.

“You’re playing great,” he said instead. “You beat Ivo. Go get him.”

Dominic managed a nervous smile and _thanks_.

He made nine errors in three sets. He was in the final.

Roger Federer had won Indian Wells five times. Dominic had never beaten him on hardcourt, or won a Masters on anything.

Nico knew he could do it, told him he could do it until Dominic believed him. Made sure every time Domi looked at his box, he saw Nico urging him onward.

He ripped the match out of Federer’s hands, stepped in to dictate play, made the kind of shots that even that heavily partisan crowd couldn’t help gasping at.

He did it.

Dominic Thiem won Indian Wells.

“I think this is working okay,” Dominic said with a laugh. “You still want the job?”

Nico grinned and firmly shook his hand.

“Sounds like a plan.”

**Author's Note:**

> I love Dominic Thiem. I love Nicolas Massu. 
> 
> I want Günter Bresnik (a toxic, spiteful, abusive piece of shit who published a book bragging about how he mentally conditioned an actual child to think overworking himself to the point of breakdown was a good thing) and Thomas Muster to fuck off into the sun.
> 
> that is all.


End file.
